


The Hours In-between

by Woodsmokeandwords (MmPumpkins)



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Childermass' moment of stupidity with a knife and his arm on the moor, Hanging, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, and make him tea, but it's okay because Segundus gets to bandage his arm up, johnsquared - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27560029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MmPumpkins/pseuds/Woodsmokeandwords
Summary: "The hours after English magic had been restored, duly restored - he still marvelled at the concept - were strangely mundane. Mr Childermass, his face still bleeding, had ridden off in a great hurry and returned hours later, quiet and wan with the look of a man trying to remember something that kept slipping away."Segundus has questions, Childermass has an wound that needs tending to. I shan't pretend this is anything other than indulgently trope-y.
Relationships: John Childermass/John Segundus
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	The Hours In-between

**Author's Note:**

> I find that the endings of both the book and the show tend to blend together for me so this is sort of a mixture of both, leaning slightly more towards the book. 
> 
> There are mentions of self harm, hanging and injuries as per the end of this JS&MN, if that makes you unduly uncomfortable please look after yourself.

The hours after English magic had been restored, duly restored - he still marvelled at the concept - were strangely mundane. Mr Childermass, his face still bleeding, had ridden off in a great hurry and returned hours later quiet and wan with the look of a man trying to remember something that kept slipping away. With him came the somehow even more bedraggled Vinculus, throat covered in bruises that no one could look at for very long. But before they had returned, a hundred questions tripping in at their heels like wind blown autumn leaves, the house had been... normal. More normal than it had been for months. With the faerie’s enchantment lifted the shifting, labyrinthine passageways of Starecross had ceased their slow merger with the Other Lands and become once more confusing in a reliably mortal way.  
  
The overpowering press of faerie magic had ebbed away like the tide and in its place Segundus had sat quietly with what he gradually began to appreciate as the comforting presence of His Own Magic. If he concentrated he could still feel the spell tingling in his fingertips, akin to the last traces of pins and needles.  
  
Lady Pole had been fussed over by the cook and the maid and was now settled in the parlour with a stack of paper and pen and ink, furiously committing her experiences in thrall to the faerie to paper. Segundus had not asked what she intended to do with this record of her mistreatment at the hands of Norrell, she might send it to the Prime Minister, or to The Times, or both and be completely justified, in his opinion. He did not need to know, all of England would know soon enough. The lady had been silenced long enough and one did not need to be particularly attentive to see that her anger was as a storm that has long since been sighted on the horizon breaking at last.  
  
Whilst Lady Pole seemed to brim with energy, Segundus found that he was sorely lacking in it. The tingling in his fingers was accompanied by a slight tremor, as though after strenuous activity, although he had performed none. Except the magic. Childermass’ words continued to ring in his head - _Do The Magic_ \- over and over. Well, he had done it and now they would have to see.  
  
He sat at the quiet kitchen table and watched the sun begin to slip down the sky. First to meet the trees on the distant hills, their bare winter branches like spidery writing against the pale February sky, and then to glare at him from between their twisted trunks and finally to wink at him from behind the crests of the hills until its comforting warmth disappeared from the kitchen and he was left with the glow from the hearth at his back and a cooling cup of tea sheltering between his tingling hands.  
  
-  
  
A great banging pulls him from his reveries. He has lost track of the hour, the sun is fully set and his tea is cold and only half drunk. The banging comes again and slowly he realises that it is the front door.  
  
-  
  
The door wrenches open and reveals Mr Segundus, who blinks at him from the gloom of the entrance hall. Childermass steps forward into the scant light escaping past Mr Segundus and out into the night. Vinculus, half leaning into him, half propped against the porch, comes with him like flotsam.  
  
“We had not expected you back, Mr Childermass?”  
  
“They are gone.” He hears himself reply, and adds “Strange and Mr Norrell.” belatedly realising this might need some explanation.  
  
“Gone? Gone where?” his large brown eyes are full of questions and sincerity.  
  
“I do not know.” Childermass sighs and gestures passed Segundus into the hall. It is at this moment that Segundus seems to take in Vinculus’ near-prone form and his manners catch up with his curiosity.  
  
“Please, do come in!” He says, stepping aside to allow them entry.  
  
“I put Brewer in your stables, I hope you don’t mind?”  
  
“No, no, of course not. Mr Childermass, what happened?” Childermass heaves Vinculus onto the settle in the hallway and looks away as the man slumps back in his seat and his hands wander towards the cruel bruising on his throat. He meets Segundus’ gaze and almost as one their eyes travel down to the blood soaking the cuff on his left wrist.  
  
“Many things. More than I think I can remember presently."  
  
“How do you mean?” Segundus’ careful examination of him transfers from his wrist to his face, to the cut on his cheek that is somehow no longer a cut.  
  
“I cannot yet say...”  
  
-  
  
Mr Segundus was too polite a host to badger him with the questions Childermass could see he was brimming with. At least not straight away. And so he is settled in one of the empty guest rooms, Vinculus installed in another, and left to himself. The maid brings in a steaming pitcher of water and a bowl and is followed by the footman with his saddlebags, he nods his thanks as they leave the room.  
  
For some time he stands, caught in a web of indecision, unable to do anything but stare at the worn leather of the saddlebags that contain his possessions. He is a frugal man, he has never had many things, let alone an attachment to them, but in this moment it seems important to him that he has them with him. Some record of his life in physical form. He had watched Hurtfew vanish. Swept out of existence in a whirl of darkness and stars and with it a significant part of England’s magical future. Regardless of what Vinculus believed.  
  
As if dazed he strips off his greatcoat, jacket and waistcoat. His reflection in the small mirror above the dresser is pallid against the gory mess of his shirt. He had thought he had caught the blood from his face but in actuality it has soaked into his neckcloth and the collar and shoulder of his shirt. He begins to remove them and set them aside, he’ll scrub the blood out later, he does not have the luxury of many shirts, but stops with it clutched in his hands as he catches sight of the cuts he had made to his forearm. Unlike his face they have not healed without explanation and the few King’s letters he had managed stand out raw and angry against the pale skin of his arm.  
  
_Bloody fool  
_  
Had he really thought to carve The Book into his own flesh? Looking at the poor job he’d done he is relieved he had dismissed the idea. Childermass splashes his face with water, then uses his ruined neckcloth to wipe the dried blood from his skin and goes to fetch his spare shirt from his bags. Back in front of the mirror the glisten of water on top of the scar on his cheek catches his attention and he leans in the better to see it.  
Healed, perfectly. As if it were years old and not mere hours. How? He brushes his fingers across it and in that touch feels the ghost of another, there is something... parental in it? And he remembers black hair but he cannot now be sure if he is remembering something from that afternoon or the shade of his mother, some scrap of half forgotten memory from his childhood. However it was done, it is fortunate. Lascelle’s knife had been sharp and it had cut deep, there is not a doctor or barber-surgeon around for miles who could have repaired his face so neatly.  
  
A clock somewhere in the house chimes and he takes a breath, as if he has been underwater. It shudders into his lungs. He takes another. And then one more. Careful not to jostle his forearm and restart the bleeding he dons his clean shirt and his waistcoat, he has nothing with which to bind the evidence of his foolishness on the moor and so will have to prevail once again on Mr Segundus’ hospitality.  
  
-  
  
Segundus for want of company had returned to the kitchen. He’d had soup from luncheon, some hot toast and a pot of tea sent up to Vinculus after Mr Childermass’ back had disappeared up the stairs and suddenly without an immediate purpose he had felt melancholy. He kept returning to the words Childermass had spoken on the doorstep; they are gone. But where had they gone? Were they coming back? How were they to go on without the foremost magicians of the land? What was to be done? They were questions that he sensed were without answers, or at least not simple answers at any rate. Sarah was finishing the washing up in the corner and the clatter of crockery and pans was a welcome, grounding racket for his mind which felt like it might be on the verge of flying away, spiralling up into the aether like a sparrow in flight.  
  
“Oh, sir- Mr Segundus?” he glances over his shoulder and sees Sarah, drying her wet hands on her apron, looking between him and the doorway. Standing at the top of the two steps down into the kitchen is Childermass. He is in his shirtsleeves, with the left sleeve rolled up exposing the raw skin of his forearm, bearing strangely shaped wounds that stand out grotesquely from his pale skin. And he is pale, more so than he ever usually is, there is a sunken, defeated look in his eyes that makes something in Segundus’ chest ache. They have never been close, they have never even been on good terms. Any potential for acquaintanceship would have withered under the oppressive knowledge of who Childermass served, even if Segundus had contemplated such a connexion. The scant few times they had met he had been under the distinct impression that he was on the back foot and forces outside of his control had manoeuvred them into position, whether that force was Norrell, English magic, fate or simply Childermass’ own mysterious machinations Segundus could never have said.  
  
“Thank you, Sarah. Please feel free to go to bed, the washing up can be finished in the morning.” he does not take his eyes off of Childermass as he speaks, in his periphery the girl executes a clumsy curtsy and walks quickly towards the door, head down. Childermass steps backwards to let her pass and she awkwardly half-nods-half-curtsies to him too. Segundus watches as the blank expression on his face is replaced by something faintly bemused as he descends the steps onto the flagstone floor of the kitchen. It is gone again however when he looks up and their eyes meet over the large table. “She is rather new.” Segundus says to break the silence, Childermass nods once.  
  
“I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr Segundus but have you anything with which I might bind this?” He gestures vaguely to his wounded arm and Segundus makes himself look away from his eyes for the fist time in minutes.  
  
“I- Oh. Oh yes, of course. Just one moment.” He half turns, trying to remember where they keep the cloth set aside for exactly this purpose, hesitates and then, “please, have a seat. I’ll be back in a moment.” He pulls out the chair he had been sitting in a little further and hurries off to fetch the bandages.  
  
They keep a box of neatly trimmed strips of linen in the upstairs landing closet. He remembers distinctly when Stephen Black had quietly informed him that Lady Pole had once been in the habit of hurting herself and Segundus had that very afternoon sent into town for two yards of linen and had sat up that evening cutting it into strips and rolling them himself. Whilst he is there he fetches a clean cloth and then brings his bundle of supplies back down to the kitchen. Childermass is sitting at the table examining his arm with care, he glances up when Segundus sets the roll of bandages and the cloth down on the table.  
  
“How did it happen, Mr Childermass? It is a strange injury.” he asks as he goes to the dresser and retrieves a clean bowl, fills it with a little cold water and places it on the table next to the bandages.  
  
“You will think me a fool, sir, but I did it myself.” Segundus halts only for a moment in the act of placing the kettle on the hook over the fire.  
  
“If you did such a thing, I suspect there was a very good reason for it.”  
  
“There was, although it proved needless in the end. A good thing, for no matter your tactfulness, it was indeed foolish.” He looks towards where the kettle hangs above the flames in the grate, “you will not have seen in the dark but Vinculus… Vinculus is very special. He- Did you ever hear of the Book of the Raven King, sir?”  
  
“Only vague allusions to it in theoretical texts, nothing tangible.” Childermass nods, seemingly to himself, at this.  
  
“I do not know how it came to be but Vinculus is that book. It is written on his skin, has been since his birth and today he insists that he is changed. That he does not say what he said before.”  
  
“What?” Segundus cannot help his stunned reaction. He drops into one of the other chairs at the table.  
  
“Just so… When I found him on the moor he was hanged. I… I had to cut him down and as I laid him on the earth I saw it there on his skin, in a strange alphabet. Having no ink or paper I could not think of a way to replicate it and in a moment of foolishness thought to cut it into my own skin.” Childermass is looking down again at the marks on his arm, large and jagged and surely no approximation for the words he says cover Vinculus’ own skin.  
  
“Mr Childermass-” he gasps and covers his mouth.  
  
“Now you see, foolishness.”  
  
“But,” he says collecting himself, “how can it be that Vinculus was hanged when he is currently upstairs eating toast?”  
  
“I cannot account for it, sir. If I understood it at all I would tell you.” he shakes his head again and wipes a hand over his face momentarily covering his eyes. It is then that the kettle starts to boil so Segundus gets up and removes it from the fire, pouring a little of the hot water into the bowl and the rest into his teapot from earlier. He pulls out the chair next to Childermass and sits down in it before spooning an extra helping of leaves into the pot.  
  
“May I see your arm, Mr Childermass?” he asks and Childermass twists in his chair and offers out his left arm. The cuts are fairly shallow and mercifully clean of any dirt but the curving letters Childermass tried to replicate have cruel edges and it looks painful. Segundus very gently takes the proffered arm and dipping his cloth into the bowl of warm water ever so lightly draws it across the wounds. He squeezes it slightly and lets the water drip onto them before wiping away the excess. He continues for some time and is surprised when Childermass speaks.  
  
“I appreciate this, Mr Segundus.” Childermass sounds awkward and slightly gruffer than usual, Segundus feels himself colour and is glad he has an excuse not to look up. It is a long moment before he can think of a proper response.  
  
“Please, think nothing of it. I would be a poor sort of colleague not to offer my help.”  
  
“Colleague?”  
  
“Are we not both magicians now, sir?” Segundus sets his cloth aside and reaches for the bandages.  
  
“I suppose we are.” Childermass says and shifts a little in his seat. They are quiet for some time as Segundus winds the bandage around Childermass arm and ties off the end. When he has done this he stands and fetches a clean cup and saucer from the dresser and fills it with tea before setting it in front of Childermass.  
  
“I had not thought to find you here.” Childermass says, glancing between Segundus and the cup of tea that has been placed in front of him.  
  
“In the kitchen? It is not befitting of a gentleman, I know, but I like to sit here to think.”  
  
“Your staff do not mind?”  
  
“There is not such a vast amount of difference between them and myself, Mr Childermass. I have been a bachelor for many years and until recently… Well, you are aware that I was not a man of means. I still am not, were it not for the kindness of Mrs Lennox I would not be in the position I am currently in.” he busies himself with fetching a plate and cutting two slices of bread which he then sets about toasting.  
  
“There are not a great many gentleman who would bandage the arm of a servant, or make him tea.” Childermass says quietly and Segundus hums noncommittally.  
“No, I suppose not but I do not mind being unlike them if it means that I helped a person in need.” he finishes toasting the bread at that moment and almost as if to reinforce his stance on helpfulness sets it down on the plate beside Childermass’ tea. “We have some fresh butter in the pantry, and cheese? Or perhaps honey?” he asks.  
  
“Just butter is fine, thank you, Mr Segundus.”  
  
-  
  
He has been watching the gentleman bustle about the kitchen making tea and toasting bread and now he watches as Mr Segundus fetches the butter dish from the pantry for him with a sense of surreal detachment. He is very conscious of the fact that he has been a thorn in this man’s side for ten years and yet has found nothing but kindness under his roof this evening.  
  
“Here you are.” Segundus says, returning with the butter and resuming his seat at the table. His chair is still close from when he was bandaging Childermass’ arm, he seems to realise this halfway through sitting down and rises again to nudge it backwards slightly.  
  
“My thanks.” Childermass manages. He is almost grateful for the overwhelming weariness that sets in as he eats his toast, it falls over him like a quilt, blanketing many of the concerns that have been rattling around in his head since he saw Vinculus hanging from the twisted branches of the hawthorn tree. A grim tableau against the windswept, desolate moor. Mr Segundus does not seem to mind the silence, his is a comforting presence as he carefully sips his tea and stares at a knot in the wood of the table.  
  
“Who else knows about Vinculus?” he asks quietly, surprising Childermass.  
  
“No one. My master knew he had a book, Vinculus boasted of it to him many years ago, but Mr Norrell never saw it, I searched for it to no end for some time.”  
  
“You mentioned- You said earlier that- that they are gone, Mr Strange and Mr Norrell. What did you mean?” Mr Segundus is looking at him, his large brown eyes full of questions again. Childermass sighs and leans back in his chair.  
  
“We rode from the tree to Hurtfew and found it vanished. I left as Mr Strange arrived with his pillar of night that we have heard so much about in the last weeks and when I returned with Vinculus it was simply as if the Abbey had been cut out of the countryside.”  
  
“But how?”  
  
“I am not certain, it was as if it had been unpicked and the space either side of where it was stitched back together, edge to edge. Vinculus said it was the King’s doing. His spell spinning out to its natural end.”  
  
“I do not think I understand.” Segundus frowns down at his hands, clasped in his lap like a schoolboy.  
  
“I am sorry, sir. I’m afraid I am doing a bad job of explaining anything tonight.”  
  
“No, it is I who should apologise, you are exhausted and I am plying you with questions. Please, Mr Childermass, answer no more of them and go and get some sleep. We can talk more on the morrow.” Segundus looks up then and smiles apologetically at him.  
  
“I’m much obliged to you for your kindness this evening, sir. I will do my best to set everything out clearly in the morning, two heads are better than one as they say and two magicians are sure to have more success than one alone also.”  
  
“Goodnight, Mr Childermass”  
  
-  
  
In the bright, winter sunshine drenching the dining table the following morning Childermass does his best to explain to Mr Segundus and to an imperiously inquisitive Lady Pole exactly what he had seen first upon the moor and then later at Hurtfew. Neither of them have much more insight into the matter than he himself does but Lady Pole does have a few choice words on the subject of unreliable, meddling magicians, present company only somewhat excluded.  
  
In the days that follow, when the letters trickle in and reports of the disappearance of not just Hurtfew but of the houses at Ashfair, Hanover Square and Soho Square begin to surface, Mr Segundus and Childermass do their best to respond to them together. Careful not to say too much to their associates and acquaintances, mindful of events progressing too quickly.  
  
Some two weeks later Sir Walter arrives to meet with Lady Pole and the two magicians absent themselves to the far reaches of the garden when the ensuing shouting match between the couple proves too loud for them to pretend they are giving them any privacy from the next room.  
  
“I think I shall go to York soon.” Childermass says, watching a snowflake settle on the leaf of a holly bush.  
  
“You will go through with it then? Call a meeting of the York Society?"  
  
“I will, it is time they knew.”  
  
“They will wish to meddle.”  
  
“Let them, unlike Her Ladyship I am of the opinion that some good can come of meddlesome magicians. After all, without your intervention things may be very different.” Childermass drags his eyes away from the holly bush and watches the pink flush on Mr Segundus’ cheeks that was already present from the chill air deepen considerably.  
  
“There are some days that I wonder what would have happened if I had not asked the question.” Mr Segundus replies, a little wistfully.  
  
“Do not wonder, Mr Segundus. In fact,” he says, a winding path unfurling before him in his minds eye, “I think I should like you to be at this meeting and ask another question.”  
  
  
  
_The end_  



End file.
